


take it from day to day

by somehowunbroken



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, West Wing AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 05:51:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10075079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowunbroken/pseuds/somehowunbroken
Summary: Mitch's week starts with a two-inch-high stack of papers and a really pissed-off Dylan Strome. Seriously,Mondays.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [myownremedy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/myownremedy/gifts).



> so at the start of the year, i said that anyone who guessed all five of the fics i wrote for hockey holidays could give me a prompt to write. myownremedy, thanks for guessing, and being such a sport as i wrote this, and giving me not just a fun prompt to write, but a new/old show to fall in love with. it's been a blast :D
> 
> as always, thanks to the beta team for all the help.
> 
> title is from stan rogers' song of the same name, about a job that's hard and sometimes makes you want to quit, but that you keep doing anyway.

Mitch finds three things in his office when he gets into work on Monday morning:

-a two-inch-high stack of papers on his desk, courtesy of Domi, if the sticky note on the top paper filled entirely with question marks is anything to go by;  
-a cinnamon raisin bagel, lightly toasted, with cream cheese melting out the sides;  
-and a _very_ pissed-off Dylan Strome.

Two of these he was expecting. The bagel is a nice surprise, though.

"What the hell is wrong with the Senate?" Dylan asks, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and glaring at the stack of papers as Mitch picks the sticky note off of them. It's the transcript of the Senate confirmation hearing for the new Secretary of Commerce, and Mitch sighs as he scans it.

"Lots of things, but I can probably narrow it down to a few names for you," Mitch offers. He looks at the bagel. "I'm pretty sure that's a peace offering, but I'm not sure what for, exactly."

"I picked it up on my way in, because you and I are going over that gigantic pile of fun, and you're impossible to deal with when you're hungry," Dylan replies. "Some might even say you're a bit of an asshole when you're hungry."

"Some might say," Mitch repeats dryly. "And who might be in that some? Would it be you, by any chance?"

Dylan puts a hand over his heart. "Not me. I'd never say anything bad about you."

Mitch gives him a flat stare. "Last week you told Jack that I was, quote, _unfit to explain the President's job to a room of fourth graders_ , unquote."

"That doesn't sound like me," Dylan says seriously.

"I was there," Mitch says. "Noah was there. Hey, Noah!"

"Hey, Mitch!" Noah yells back.

"Remember last week when Dylan said—"

"—that you were unfit to explain," Noah starts.

"Fine," Dylan shouts, rolling his eyes and lowering his voice. "Okay, yes, sometimes I say bad things about you. That doesn't make you special; I don't really like anybody."

"You like Domi," Mitch points out, finally sitting down. He motions to the other chair, then turns to the second page of the transcript.

"I'm contractually obligated to at least pretend to like Domi," Dylan allows. He reaches down and grabs his actual, honest-to-god briefcase that Mitch hadn't noticed was tucked up against the desk and pulls out another copy of the transcript before sitting. "Doesn't count."

"You like the kid they hired to be the President's new aide," Mitch says. He pulls the bagel apart and licks at the cream cheese; it's all warm and melty, and Dylan might hate him but Mitch probably loves Dylan a little. Or the bagel. It's possible he just loves the bagel.

"Alex is pocket-sized and also might actually be twelve," Dylan replies, putting his finger on something on the page he's reading and snagging a highlighter from Mitch's desk. "I'm not allowed to hate children. There's a rule somewhere about that."

"Not in your contract, unless they met you first and decided you needed it," Mitch says. "What'd you find?"

"It doesn't have to be in my contract. If my mother ever found out I hated a child, she'd end me," Dylan says. "I'll let you know what I found when I'm done. Eat your bagel before it gets gross."

Mitch can do that.

-0-

The Senate is, in fact, full of bullshit, and most of the people who are part of it are masters at creating even more bullshit.

Gregg Andropolis is the _master_ of the masters.

"What even," Mitch says, staring at the transcript. He grabs the pile he's already gone through and shuffles back a little, checking to make sure that he's not misremembering, and—nope, he's got it right. He glances back and forth between the two papers. "What _even_."

"Andropolis," Dylan says wearily, like that's all the answer he needs to give. Honestly, he's not wrong.

"He contradicted himself twice," Mitch says. "In the span of three minutes. And then talked himself out of it, and managed to pull three votes to his side."

Dylan puts his papers down and rolls his neck. There's a lot of audible popping, and Mitch winces even as he resists the urge to do the same. "Andropolis," he repeats. "The guy sells snake oil for a living. He could talk a six-foot-four guy into buying size three women's heels to strut around the Senate floor in."

"I would pay money for it to be Carter," Mitch says, going back to the transcript. "Actual money." Senator Carter is three inches taller than Dylan and probably weighs three Dylans. And that's if Mitch is being generous.

Dylan sighs and puts his stack of papers down. They're probably only halfway through, but Mitch agrees with the sentiment. "Why are we assigned to this?"

"I'm going to have to answer a million inane questions about it this afternoon," Mitch says promptly. "I'm guessing you're going to have to prepare remarks for the President, because he's going to have to comment on it."

"He shouldn't have to comment on it," Dylan mutters. "That's your job."

"Of course it is," Mitch says, putting his papers down. "Do you not _want_ to prepare remarks?"

Dylan shrugs. "That's _my_ job."

Mitch narrows his eyes. "It is. And you like your job, even if you hate people in general and everyone in this office in particular."

"We shouldn't _have_ to," Dylan says, tapping the highlighter against Mitch's desk. "Andropolis isn't—"

"Andropolis isn't your biggest problem," Jack cuts in, sticking his head into the office. His hair is a frizzy shitshow, which is saying something, and also means that there is definitely a bigger problem than Andropolis. Jack's a little vain about his hair.

"Go away," Dylan says, flapping his hand at Jack. "Andropolis can be my biggest problem. I don't need a bigger problem."

"There are three hundred protesters outside waving signs that none of us can read," Jack says flatly. "They've assembled in the past fifteen minutes. We've got people from every department we can think of trying to figure out what they're trying to tell us, and so far we've got nothing except a growing number of reporters asking what we've figured out."

Mitch rolls his eyes. "Leave them to me."

"I plan to," Jack retorts. "I just figured I'd give you a heads up before you went into the lion's den smelling like raw meat."

"I smell like bagel, thanks," Mitch says, standing and grabbing his iPad. He jerks his chin at Dylan as he walks out of the office. "Keep reading, write some words. I'll be back."

"I can hardly wait," Dylan says. He might say more, but Mitch tunes him out as he scrolls through his emails. There are a bunch of high-resolution images attached to the latest few, and he opens them up to see a whole bunch of gibberish carefully lettered onto pristine white foam board.

Mitch stop walking and frowns at it, and Jack snorts. "Right?"

"Is it code?"

"Could be," Jack says, shrugging. "Hey, Noah, is it code?"

"It's not any code _I'm_ familiar with," Noah says. "But I'm only familiar with… no codes at all, Jack. I have no idea if it's code or not."

"You could have," Jack starts.

"You'd have the email if they'd cracked a code," Noah says, turning back to his computer.

Jack rolls his eyes. "Why haven't I fired you?"

"Because I'm irreplaceable," Noah says with the utter confidence of a man who knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that he's right. "Remember when I went on vacation last year, and you made two temps quit in a week?"

"And Dylan says _I'm_ an asshole when I'm hungry," Mitch says, squinting at the photos.

"You are," Noah says plainly. "We all chip in to the 'keep Mitch fed' fund. You don't think I was springing for all those lunches that just appeared on your desk, did you?"

"No, he thought Dylan was," Jack interjects. "Hey, let me know if anything comes through, okay?"

"You have email," Noah reminds him. "It's on your phone. I set it to play the 'message for you, sir' thing from Monty Python every time you get a new one."

"Of course that was you," Jack says. "I had to change it because it was going off so often it was cutting itself off, and then my phone kept getting caught in an endless loop of it trying to finish that goddamn ringtone."

"You changed it?" Noah says, mock-outraged. "You paid a dollar and nine cents for that ringtone, and it's just sitting there unused?"

"I _paid_ for that?" Jack says incredulously. "Wait, not only did you break into my phone, you used it to download a ringtone that I had to pay for, and then—"

Jack's phone dings quietly just as Mitch's iPad beeps with a new email. Noah looks at his computer, then looks back to Jack. "Message for you, sir," he says in the dryest tone Mitch has ever heard from anyone.

"I'm firing you," Jack says, reaching for his phone. "I swear I am."

"No you're not," Domi says, appearing out of nowhere. He's good at that. "Jack, are you on this signs thing?"

"For now," Jack says.

Domi nods. "Anyone seen Dylan?"

"My office," Mitch says, looking at the new email. It's more photos, different people holding different signs. It looks peaceful, which is pretty much the best thing. Riots outside the White House get ugly fast.

"Of course he is," Domi says. Mitch can hear him rolling his eyes. "When's your press conference?"

"Fifteen minutes, and what do you mean, 'of course he is?'" Mitch asks, finally looking up from his iPad. Domi's staring at him like he can't believe what he's seeing, Noah's looking more studiously at his computer than he probably ever has in his life, and Jack is outright laughing at him.

"Nope, I'm not taking this one," Domi decides. "Tell them we're working on it, reiterate that they seem to be nonviolent."

"Not my first rodeo, but thanks," Mitch says. "Go… write, or whatever it is you do around here."

"I wrote you such a nice sticky note this morning," Domi calls as Mitch starts heading for the conference room.

Jack follows him. "Good one pulling Domi's leg," he says, still snickering.

"Sure, great, laugh at me," Mitch mutters. "I wasn't pulling his leg, what the hell."

Jack stops laughing and walking at the same time, then starts laughing again, even louder this time. "Never change," he wheezes, and Mitch gives him the finger before plastering a media smile onto his face and walking out to face the reporters.

"Good morning," Mitch starts once he's behind the podium, and before he can get another word out, there are three hands in the air. "Oh, come on, you guys, You've done this before; that's not how it works."

There's a little laughter, and two of the hands go down. The third one is Ott from the Daily Report, and Mitch is completely comfortable ignoring him until he can't anymore.

"First of all, let me start by saying that I'll take questions about the confirmation hearing this afternoon," Mitch begins. "Our staff is reviewing it as we speak, and I don't want to misrepresent anything because I don't have all of the facts." Ott's hand slowly sinks, but he puts it back up before it gets all the way to his lap. Damn it.

"That leaves us with the signs," Mitch continues. "As of right now: no, we don't know what they say. We don't know what the protesters want. We have language people and code people working on it, and we'll let you know when we know."

Ott's hand is even higher in the air now. Mitch heaves a mental sigh so heavy he's a little afraid the press corps will hear it anyway, then nods. "Questions."

"Mitch," Ott says, which is the least surprising thing about this press conference so far. "Senator Andropolis—"

"Let me stop you right there," Mitch cuts in. "I'm not taking questions on Andropolis right now."

"Not even about how he's in the hospital?" Ott gets out before Mitch can move on.

In the—shit, _shit_. Mitch keeps his casual smile in place. "Like I said, Mr. Ott, we'll handle the confirmation hearing later today. Senator Andropolis is part of that, so we'll discuss whatever we need to discuss about him _later_."

Out of the corner of his eye, Mitch sees Jack jogging back down the hallway, doing something on his phone. Odds are good he's getting Noah on the case, maybe feeding it up the food chain that Andropolis is in the hospital the day after he pretty much single-handedly deadlocked the Senate on appointing Eberle.

"Any questions not related to the confirmation hearing, Senator Andropolis, or Dr. Eberle?" Mitch asks. Ott pouts at him, but Ott can sit quietly in the corner and wait. He's stirred up enough shit for one press conference.

"Mitch," Tavares from the New York Times says, raising his pen into the air.

"John," Mitch says, nodding at him. He likes Tavares; he's a solid guy, and he's as trustworthy as a reporter can be when you're the press secretary for the White House.

"These people with the signs," he begins. "Have you sent out a negotiator? Anyone to talk to them?"

"It's on our list of things to do," Mitch says, nodding. "We'd like to see if we can figure out what they're trying to say first. So far, they're just a peaceful gathering, so we don't want to send out an FBI negotiator and scare them if it turns out that those are really poorly-spelled thank-you cards for the President."

It gets a few chuckles from around the room.

"We're working on it," he adds. "As soon as we know, you'll know. That's how it goes."

"Mitch," someone calls from the back, and Mitch nods, settling a little bit. This is his jam; he's totally got this.

-0-

"What the fuck, how did nobody know Andropolis was in the hospital?" Dylan hisses as soon as Mitch is out of the sight of the reporters.

"I don't know, Dylan. My brain link to the internet must be down; do you think Leon from IT can fix it?" Mitch says irritably. "What's wrong with him? Do we have an update?"

"Taylor's calling an all-hands, three minutes," Dylan says, shaking his head a little. "I think it's probably not good."

"Christ," Mitch mutters. "The optics of this—"

"I know," Dylan says darkly. "And if he misses any of the other confirmation hearings—"

"He's going to," Mitch says. "Even if they release him right now, if he's bad enough that he's in the hospital, then he's not going to make it to the floor tomorrow afternoon. Not unless he just fell and broke his leg, and if that's the case, then I doubt Taylor would be calling an all-hands."

"He definitely did not break a leg," Noah calls as they walk past him. "According to the internet, he had a heart attack, a stroke, and has been diagnosed with six different cancers. No mention of his leg at all."

"God bless the internet," Dylan mutters as they walk into Taylor's office.

Taylor immediately points a pen at him. "The internet is a pile of shit made out of lies and angry people," he says. He pauses for a moment and then adds, "And cat videos. Those are okay."

"Cat videos approved for office viewing, you heard it here first," Mitch says. "Does that go in the next press release?"

"Sure, put it in with the funding for UFO research," Taylor says. "You know, that one scheduled for the fifth of never."

"I'll pencil it in," Mitch promises. He looks around; almost all of the usual suspects are here. "Where's Domi?"

"Domi's working on the signs thing with one of the code guys," Jack replies. He's sprawled across one of the sofas in Taylor's office. "He's convinced there's some sort of pattern he recognises in the signs."

Dylan raises an eyebrow. "And they're just letting him do his thing?"

"Tell you what, Dylan, I'll give you five minutes to drag him in here," Taylor says, leaning back. "Or you could not waste your time, and we can get on with things."

"Yeah, that option," Dylan decides, sitting on the other sofa. He doesn't take up the whole thing, which means there's plenty of room for Mitch to share it, unlike Jack's sofa. "What are we hearing?"

"Nothing good," Jack says. He leans forward to grab his iPad from the table. "Andropolis is in rough shape. He had a heart attack last night getting into bed, and there was that big pileup on 395, so it took the ambulance a while to get there, and then a while to get him to the hospital."

"Medical reports say that his heart stopped three times before he got to the ER," Taylor continues. "They did surgery. Coronary artery bypass graft. He's been pretty heavily sedated since they stitched him up."

"Is he gonna make it?" Mitch asks.

Taylor sighs and rubs at his jaw. "Too early to tell. It could go either way."

"Shit," Dylan mutters, slumping back against the sofa.

"Basically that, yeah," Taylor agrees.

"What are our concerns?" Jack asks. "Top to bottom."

"Someone's going to come out of the woodwork and say the President orchestrated this because he's mad about the Eberle hearing," Mitch says.

Jack snorts. "As if."

"They're gonna say it, though," Mitch says. He's already spinning a dozen different replies in his head. Most of them won't ever get to see the light of day, but it's really satisfying to call Ott a delusional hack in the safety of his own mind.

"They are," Taylor agrees. "We can get medical details disproving that if it comes down to it."

"It shouldn't have to, but we'll keep that in our back pockets," Mitch says. "I can predict who that's going to come from, and none of them should be too hard to dissuade or discredit."

"Stay on it," Taylor says, nodding.

There's a knock at the door, but before anyone can say anything, Domi's letting himself in. "Those fucking signs," he says, clearly frustrated.

"Well, there's our sign update," Dylan says dryly.

"I'm convinced it's some sort of frat prank," Domi says, sinking into an armchair. "Let's go hold up a bunch of weird signs at the White House, see if we can get the monkeys to dance."

"Could be," Taylor agrees. "Anything else on Andropolis, or are we letting that be until we know more?"

"Wait, what's with Andropolis?" Domi asks.

"Heart attack," Jack replies. "Even odds on whether he pulls through."

"Shit," Domi groans.

Dylan snorts. "That's exactly what I said."

"The President," Domi starts.

"We don't need to bring it to him yet," Jack cuts in. "He's doing a last preparation session with Dr. Wickenheiser before her appointment hearing tomorrow."

"Why do people retire?" Dylan asks despairingly. "Better question: why do they all retire at the same time?"

"Just wait," Taylor says darkly. "There's rumblings we're going to have to fill a Supreme Court position before this term is over."

"Oh, that'll be fun!" Mitch says brightly. "I can't wait to hear what the press is going to say about _that_ process."

"Start preparing now," Domi advises. "Look, are we doing anything on Andropolis?"

"I don't see how we can at this point," Mitch says, shrugging a little. "We want to counter what he said, but we can't do it when his life is hanging in the balance."

"Yeah, talk about bad optics," Dylan agrees.

"Look, another thing on the Andropolis front," Jack says. "If he pulls through, he'll probably relinquish his seat. The first thing they're gonna tell him to do is reduce stress in his life, and being that much of a pain in the ass to the entirety of the White House senior staff and the President himself has to stress him out at least a little. Karma, or something."

"So either way we're a little fucked," Domi summarises. "Great. I love Mondays."

"Where's he from?" Mitch asks, frowning. He'd read most of the transcript this morning, but for some reason the fact is escaping him.

"Colorado," Dylan supplies. "I hate to say it, but this could work to our advantage. The governor's a Democrat, so chances are good he'd appoint a Democrat."

"So we're hoping for a recovery and a retirement," Taylor says. "We can work with that.We can work with that, right?"

"I can," Mitch says. "I don't know how the rest of you handle things."

There's another knock, this time from the interior door. It's the one that leads down the hall to the Oval Office. There are very few people who could be on the other side of that door, and given the way things are going, it's not hard to figure out who it probably is.

"We're all in here," Taylor calls, which means that it's definitely the President, and Taylor definitely knew he was coming.

"We brought coffee," Alex announces as he walks in, setting a carafe that by all rights he should not be large enough to carry down on the table. Mitch had been the smallest guy in the office at an _entirely_ respectable 5'9", thank you Dylan, but now that Alex is here Mitch can happily pass that honor on.

"You got it, Alex?" President McDavid asks softly as he walks in behind his aide. He does a lot of things softly; it had drawn them as many votes as it had lost them in the election, but Connor McDavid is a man with too much quiet confidence to appear to be anything but trustworthy. Given the fact that he graduated from two different Ivy League schools early and the only reason the number isn't three is because Harvard refused to fast-track a law degree for him, he's also a polished, well-spoken guy. Mitch believes in him like he's never believed in a politician in his life, not even when he was a kid who thought that being the President automatically made you trustworthy.

"I've got it, Mr. President," Alex says, stepping back. "If you'll excuse me a minute, I'm gonna go get the cups." He vanishes back out the door, and the President sits on the other half of the sofa that Jack is mysteriously no longer taking up.

"What are we looking at?" he asks Taylor.

Taylor sighs. "We're going to keep everything Andropolis-related vague until we know more, and we still have no idea what the sign thing is."

"I prepared some remarks for you on Andropolis, but I'm going to need to revise them," Dylan says. "I did them this morning, before we knew about the heart attack."

The President sighs heavily. "He's not going to make it, is he?"

"He could," Jack says. "It's a little touch and go right now, but they're not saying anything either way, which means even the doctors don't know. He's a stubborn old bastard, though, so he'll probably pull through just so he can insult us from a hospital bed for a change."

It makes the President smile, at least. That's not nothing, so Mitch shoots Jack a thumbs-up. Jack rolls his eyes, which is pretty much as close to a thank you as you get from Jack.

Alex comes back in, sleeve of Styrofoam cups in his hand. "Okay, you all look like you need coffee," he decides, looking around the room. He points the sleeve at Dylan. "You, especially. Do you sleep?"

"I sleep," Dylan says, narrowing his eyes at Alex. "Did you hit the coffee too much as a middle schooler? I heard it stunts your growth."

"Okay, no creamer for you, grumpy pants," Alex returns, sticking a cup under the spigot and pressing the button. The room immediately fills with the smell of the good coffee, and Mitch can see everyone in the room lean in a little to get closer to the scent. Alex thrusts the cup at Dylan. "Drink. No talking until you finish it."

"You," Dylan starts.

"I am the one in charge of your coffee access," Alex cuts in. He crosses his arms over his chest and juts his chin out, and he's simultaneously adorable and terrifying. Threatening to withhold coffee is a serious matter around here.

Dylan knows it, because he sulks and takes a sip of his coffee.

"Now that that's taken care of," President McDavid says, "what else do we need to discuss?"

-0-

Dylan is in Mitch's office when Domi pokes his head in an hour later. He raises his eyebrow slowly enough that Mitch knows he's meant to see it, then tilts his head at Dylan.

"Domi," Mitch says. There's only so much… whatever this is that he can take, and Jack laughing at him twice in one day is pretty much the limit.

"The sign people are leaving," he says.

Dylan turns around. "Did we figure out what they were doing?"

"Nope."

"Did we send someone out to talk to them?" Mitch asks.

Domi shakes his head. "Sure didn't."

"They're just… leaving," Dylan says slowly, like he's testing out the words.

"Looks like it," Domi says. "Isn't that frustrating as hell?"

"What were they doing?" Dylan wonders.

"No idea," Domi says. "Like, none. Nobody has any idea. They came, they held up unintelligible signs, they left. Nobody yelled. I don't think any of them spoke the entire time."

"Great," Mitch mutters. "The press is gonna just love how much we don't know about this whole thing."

"Boy, am I glad I'm not the press secretary," Domi drawls. "That job would suck."

Mitch gives him the finger, and Domi laughs as he walks out again.

Dylan sighs. "He's an asshole."

"I thought he was one of the ones you liked?" Mitch says. "Or pretended to like, whatever."

Dylan shrugs. "I did say _pretend_. I think I even mentioned the contractual obligation in there."

"Can I ask you a question?" Mitch asks. He wants to slap a hand over his mouth as soon as he says it; being the press secretary for the McDavid administration means that he has to always be thinking about what comes out of his mouth when he's not in his office, but that means that sometimes his brain-to-mouth filter takes a vacation as soon as he steps inside.

"I'm sure you're very capable of asking me a question," Dylan answers.

Mitch snorts. "Trust the speechwriter to nitpick the semantics," he retorts, and Dylan smirks at him. "I mean, you don't have to answer this if you don't want to, but… why did you take this job if you don't like what you do or anyone you work with?"

Dylan leans back a little in his chair, eyes widening marginally. There's a reason he's not the press secretary; for one, he speaks far too fast for anyone to take notes on what he's saying, and for another, his poker face is for shit. "What?"

Mitch shrugs. "I mean," he tries. "You're good at it. I don't know, I guess I don't get why you hang around if you don't like it here."

"It's not that I don't like it here," Dylan says slowly, like he's considering each word before it pops out of his mouth for once. It's a little strange to hear him speak at a normal human speed. "And I don't hate everyone, believe it or not."

"Right, we talked about Alex this morning," Mitch acknowledges.

Dylan gives him a strange look, then slides his gaze over until he's staring intently at Mitch's pen cup. "I believe in what the President is doing," he says. His voice is soft, but Mitch doesn't doubt the conviction in it. "I like his policies; I like his approach. I think his outline for the rest of his term is the kind of revolutionary that will actually work, and I want to be a part of that." He looks up at Mitch. "I don't like the busy work; I don't like dealing with the assholes. But when he pushes something through and I get to write his remarks, when I write a fundraising speech that's full of promises that I actually believe in and that I know he'll try his damndest to keep…" Dylan shakes his head slowly. "It's worth it."

It's not that it's the most Mitch has ever heard Dylan say at once; everyone was present for the Great Eggnog Incident of 2015, and it's on pretty much everyone's phone for posterity. This is different, though. This is Dylan actually talking about himself, and it's… a lot, honestly.

"Thanks for answering me," Mitch says quietly, when the silence stretches between them. "I… thanks."

"You asked," Dylan says with a shrug. There's something in his tone of voice, though, that makes Mitch keep looking. Dylan meets his gaze calmly, and they just sit there staring at each other for a little while.

There's a shout from outside the office, and they both shift to look out the door. Noah is standing by his desk, glaring at his computer screen, and Jack is a few feet away, swearing as he pokes at his phone. "Don't touch your computers!" he yells as he starts walking, bringing his phone up and starting to spit rapid-fire information at whoever he'd called.

"Fucking Mondays," Dylan says, staring as Noah gingerly leans over and squints at something on his screen. He groans a moment later, straightening up and shutting off the monitor.

"I have to know, though," Mitch replies, standing up. "You coming?"

"Oh, like hell am I missing this," Dylan says, following Mitch as he walks into the bullpen.

"Noah," Mitch says, stopping by his desk. "Noah, Noah. What did you do?"

"As if it was me," Noah sniffs. "I'm not stupid enough to watch porn on White House computers, oh my god."

"What?" Dylan asks.

"There's," Noah says, waving vaguely at his monitor. "A bunch of ads started popping up out of nowhere."

"Porn ads," Dylan supplies. It sounds like he's trying to hide how delighted he is by this development.

"Porn ads," Noah agrees.

"Holy shit," Ashley, Taylor's aide, yells, standing up and batting at her monitor. "Noah, your porn is on my computer!"

"It's not my porn!" Noah says indignantly. "I have better taste than that, Ash, c'mon. You know me better than that."

Ashley glares at Noah. She's barely shorter than he is, which is saying something; she's also a hell of a lot scarier, and Noah knows it, if the way he shrinks back is any indication. She points at her monitor. "Get the dicks off my screen," she says. "I have an update to write on Aleppo, there are four emails I have to field from aides to the Secretary of State, and I have never once in my life wanted to see a dick. Make it stop."

"I didn't," Noah starts.

"I don't _care_ ," Ashley says, walking towards him. "They showed up on your computer first, so really—"

"Actually," Taylor interrupts, opening his office door. "According to IT, it started in the mailroom. Congratulations, Noah, it's officially not your porn!"

"I told you," Noah says triumphantly, turning to Ashley with a smirk.

"I _do not care_ ," Ashley yells. "Fix it!"

"Ashley," Taylor interrupts mildly. "Leon's on his way up. I'll have him look at your computer first, okay?"

"Taylor, there are dicks on my Aleppo update," Ashley says, whirling to face him. "Do you have any idea how wrong that is?"

Taylor nods and holds his hands out. "We'll get the dicks off your report. No worries."

"Mondays," Dylan says quietly to Mitch.

When Mitch looks over, Dylan's grinning.

-0-

The late-afternoon press conference does not go well.

Or, okay: it goes fine, in that nobody reveals that another government official has ended up in the hospital (thanks, Ott), and nobody outright calls Mitch a liar (thanks again, Ott), and nobody throws anything at Mitch (that had been Kessel, but in her defense, there had been a bee in the room and she's highly allergic).

It's the worst kind of press conference, though. Mitch has no answers, and the press is all questions. There are only so many ways to say "we're still working on it" or "we'll update you when we know more" before the journalists in attendance start getting ants in their pants.

"So you don't know anything about the signs, and you won't give us anything on Andropolis," Tyson Barrie from the Denver Post finally says. "Do you actually have anything for us, Mitch?"

Mitch spreads his hands. "I hope you all have a very nice evening, and I hope tomorrow is more newsworthy."

He doesn't. He hopes tomorrow doesn't bring anything new, because tomorrow he'll still have to deal with the signs and with Andropolis and with what they're going to do about Dr. Eberle and the Secretary of Commerce position. He hopes tomorrow is boring, because today's spillover is going to be exciting enough.

"I'll talk to you all in the morning," he adds, then walks off the stage.

"Good job, saying all that nothing," Dylan says when Mitch walks into the hallway.

"It's an art form," Mitch says breezily. "I get a lot of practice with it."

Dylan snorts. "There's a reason you're king of bullshit mountain."

"I want a crown," MItch says as they walk into his office. "Do we have any updates on anything?"

"Leon got the porn ads off of Ashley's computer," Dylan volunteers. "And Noah's, and then he installed updates to everyone's antivirus software while very pointedly commenting about the necessity of not ignoring the little popups that tell you your virus definitions are out of date."

Mitch glances at his computer. "Did he do mine?"

"He did," Dylan confirms. "When's the last time you updated? I haven't since I took over for the last guy. Leon wasn't thrilled."

Mitch snorts. "I did it then, but maybe not since," he admits. "It hasn't been that long. How many new virus definitions could there be?"

"Mitch, it's been nine and a half months," Dylan says, clearly amused. "Lots can go wrong in nine and a half months."

"Says the guy who didn't update his antivirus software when he got here," Mitch shoots back.

Dylan raises his hands. "I'm just repeating what Leon said." He pauses. "Well, I'm rephrasing. He was a lot more pissed."

"I bet," Mitch says, rolling his neck. "Is today over yet?"

"Almost," Dylan promises. "At least, it's almost when the aides get to go home. Us, who knows."

Mitch sighs. "You know what I'd love? A night with no emergencies, some Chinese takeout, and my Leafs sweatpants."

"You're a Leafs fan?" Dylan asks, clearly surprised. "I didn't think anyone was a Leafs fan."

Mitch bristles a little. "Hey, now. They had some rough years in there, I'll admit, but—"

"No, no, I'm with you," Dylan says, leaning in. "They got that Matthews kid in the draft. The future is bright."

It makes Mitch blink. "Wait, _you're_ a Leafs fan?"

"Born and raised," Dylan says, putting his hand over his heart. "It's been brutal."

"It has," Mitch agrees. "We should watch a game together sometime. Solidarity."

"Barring emergencies, I'm up for joining the Chinese-food-and-sweatpants party you've got planned for tonight," Dylan offers. "Unless you were just saying that to be polite, in which case I have plans."

Mitch laughs. "Barring emergencies, I'll see you half an hour before puck drop," he says. "You bring beer, I'll get the Chinese food. No suits allowed, by the way, so you'd better not stay here late and just drive over for the game."

"I solemnly swear I won't wear a suit," Dylan says, giving him a real, full smile.

"Strome!" Domi yells. "I need you. Don't make me come find you."

"And on that note," Dylan says, sighing. "Text me your address."

"Will do," Mitch says. He's still blinking from the force of Dylan's smile. It's a rare sight, and Mitch is kind of glad he's the one who brought it out.

He's got work to do; he checks his email to see what the latest news is. There's one from Leon with all sorts of flags on it that's titled _**UPDATE YOUR ANTIVIRUS SOFTWARE EVERY WEEK!!!**_ that makes him snicker; there are a few in an email chain he's been tagged into about the whole signs debacle that he skims through before deciding that they still don't know anything. There's a question from his counterpart in Vice-President Poulin's office about the trip to Riyadh in a month, which he answers quickly, and then he stares down the email chain about the whole Andropolis situation. There's only going to be more backlog to get through if he waits, so Mitch opens it up and starts reading.

It's not that Mitch was incredibly optimistic about the senator's recovery, but reading the actual medical report makes him swear under his breath. He hesitates for a moment, but then he grabs his iPhone and dials.

"Hey," Chris answers after two rings. "How's life in the big city going for my favorite little brother?"

"Ugh," Mitch says. It's succinct, and right now, it's not far off. "Totally theoretical question, in no way based on any actual real-life situation. Got a minute?"

"I'm on lunch, you're in luck," Chris replies. "Go for it."

"Let's hypothetically say there was someone who had a massive heart attack who then took a while to get to the hospital," Mitch says. "And then this fake patient had surgery for it."

"A coronary artery bypass graft," Chris says. "So his heart can keep beating even though part of it's blocked. Or so I assume."

"You assume correctly," Mitch says. "Patient Zero comes out of surgery heavily sedated. What's the prognosis?"

"Well, I wouldn't be too concerned that he's been sedated," Chris says. "The sedation itself isn't surprising. They'll want to bring him out of it gradually, monitor his pain levels, keep him medicated so he doesn't do anything to trigger a second episode or tear the stitching."

"Okay," Mitch says. "How long would that take?"

"A few hours," Chris says, and Mitch's heart sinks.

"So, theoretically," he says, scanning his email again. "If he's still under medical sedation, say, ten hours after the surgery…"

Chris blows out a breath. "Then I'd tell you to have the governor of whatever state he's from come up with a short list."

"Damn it," Mitch says, closing his eyes. "I'm not asking you for concrete numbers, and this is mostly so I know how to shape my own answers It's definitely not for the President or anything, but if you had to give me an estimate on his chances for waking up, what would you say?"

"Without taking a look at the file," Chris starts.

"That's a breach of confidentiality," Mitch cuts in.

He can almost hear Chris rolling his eyes. "No shit. That's why I'm not asking for it. I'm just saying, don't take this as the gospel truth."

"I already said I wasn't asking for concrete numbers, Chris," Mitch says. "You're not a magic 8 ball. Just give me your best."

"He's got maybe a 30% chance of waking up if he's still sedated this long after the surgery," Chris says bluntly. "If he does, it's not gonna be like flipping a switch and having him back. There will be a lot of issues other than the heart attack and the surgical recovery. Physical, mental, emotional, you name it."

"So I should be calling the governor of Colorado," Mitch says, closing his eyes.

"I'm not saying he can't make a recovery, or even a remarkable recovery," Chris says. "What I'm saying is that you're basically going to need a miracle for him to get back on the Senate floor, and I doubt he'd be fit to before his term was up anyway."

"Theoretically," Mitch adds, mostly because he knows it'll make Chris roll his eyes again.

Sure enough, Chris snorts. "Yes. Theoretically. Definitely not a real patient, not mine or anyone else's, so there's no need to call the governor of Colorado."

"Like I wouldn't delegate that anyway," Mitch says lightly.

Chris laughs. "Hey, I need to eat before I get back on the clock, so I'm gonna go," he says. "Good luck, Mitch."

"Thanks for your help," Mitch says before hanging up.

He looks at the email chain and sighs. He could just send an email update, but he knows what he _should_ do here, so he stands up and heads for Jack's office.

This should be fun.

-0-

Whatever gods exist are looking out for Mitch, because nothing blows up, literally or figuratively, for the rest of the day. He gets to leave the office at six, and he doesn't exactly race home to make sure he didn't leave dirty clothes in the hallway, but he does maybe drive a little more quickly than he usually does. He'd texted Dylan his address and Dylan had replied with the Chinese food he likes, as if nearly a year of working with him in the White House and two years before that on the campaign trail hadn't made Mitch incredibly aware of what all of his colleagues prefer to eat. He even remembers Taylor's love of all nuts except Brazil nuts, even if he doesn't remember how that particular fact came up in conversation.

There have also been no explosions in Mitch's apartment, and he half-thinks to be grateful for the complete lack of explosions in his day before firmly stopping himself. No use tempting fate. He puts this morning's coffee cup in the dishwasher and then calls in the food before wandering back to his bedroom to change into something that's way less of a suit.

His Leafs sweatpants aren't clean but they're not dirty, either, so Mitch tugs them on and debates for a minute about which shirt to put on. He finally snorts at himself and grabs an old Stanford debate team shirt; it's not like he needs to impress Dylan or anything. It doesn't take long to set the game stream up; NHL.tv is kind of a crapshoot when it comes to quality, but he's a federal employee and getting caught on Reddit looking for illegal streams would land him in a shitload of trouble, so he shuts his mouth and pays the subscription fee. After that, he's left with nothing to do.

Just as he's considering texting Chris to ask him some vague-yet-specific details about Andropolis, his phone buzzes. _Hey I'm a little early. Is that ok? If not I can wait in the car_

Mitch grins. _I'll buzz you up._

There's a knock on his door two minutes later, and Mitch is smiling as he opens it up. It freezes on his face when he catches sight of Dylan, and he realises instantly that he's made a critical error with this whole hockey and carryout plan.

It's not that Mitch has never noticed that Dylan's an attractive guy. He looks great in a suit, and as long as he remembers to shave Mitch will forgive him his messy hair. He might even encourage it, if he's being honest with himself. Mitch has had a long time to build up a tolerance to Dylan and his dry wit and how he looks when it's two in the morning and he's undone the top few buttons of his shirt, but he has no defense against Dylan wearing a worn-out Leafs tee and a pair of soft-looking gray sweats, standing in his doorway holding a six-pack of beer.

Dylan lifts the beer, and Mitch blinks, tearing himself out of his own head. "Do I pass the entrance exam, Mr. Debate Team?"

"We won," Mitch says, stepping back and pulling the door all the way open. "Make fun of me all you want, but I swear the woman I went up against at Nationals was worse than anyone in the press room."

"Don't let them hear you say that," Dylan says, laughing. He glances around as he toes his shoes off near the door. "Nice place."

"Thanks," Mitch says. It is and he knows it; his mother had made faces when he'd mentioned he was looking for something small and close to work. She'd wanted him to buy a house, and he could've, but he doesn't want that permanence yet. They'd made peace with this apartment, and Mitch is man enough to admit that he's called his mom to thank her for talking him out of renting the first shoebox he could find. "I can give you the tour while we wait for the food to get here if you want."

"Show me around," Dylan says. "Show me the kitchen first. The beer's best cold."

"If you can't drink a beer warm," Mitch starts.

Dylan chucks him lightly on the shoulder. "I know, I know," he says. "The cold dulls your taste buds, blah blah. It's fine warm, but it's better cold."

"Fine," Mitch grumbles, but he can't help the way the smile is tugging at his mouth. He walks into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. "Give me a minute to make room."

"What could possibly be in there?" Dylan asks. "You don't believe in breakfast, and we eat almost all our meals at the office."

"Stuff," Mitch says vaguely, grabbing last night's Thai leftovers and shoving them on top of last week's Thai leftovers. It might be time to clean the fridge out.

"Your _stuff_ is gonna grow legs and walk its way out of there soon," Dylan observes. He's too damn tall; Mitch can't block his view, not that it matters now that Dylan has seen inside. "I take it back. The beer will be fine warm."

"It's not that bad," Mitch says. He's possibly lying through his teeth. "Gimme."

Dylan sighs, but he hands the beer over. "If we both get listeria, I know what I'm blaming," he warns.

"The Chinese food, clearly," Mitch says, standing and shutting the door. It doesn't pop back open, so this whole thing has been a complete success, honestly.

Dylan's got a look on his face when he looks at Mitch, and it makes Mitch feel like he should be blushing. He's not sure why, except that it's a lot, and Dylan doesn't seem to be particularly inclined to stop having that expression.

"Uh, tour?" Mitch asks before his face can do a tomato impression. He's got a few scraps of dignity left and he'd like to keep them, thanks.

"Sure," Dylan says. He takes a step back, and it's only then that Mitch realises how close they were standing. It's silly to miss Dylan's warmth when he hadn't even noticed it was there in the first place, but Mitch has never claimed to be logical.

Or, well. He has; it's on his resume and everything. Still.

"Dining room," Mitch says as they walk through it. "Don't mind all the paperwork."

"You don't eat in here," Dylan observes. He looks like he wants to poke one of the stacks of paper, but he's smart enough to know that Mitch would absolutely make him pick it up. "Ever."

"That's why we invented living rooms," Mitch says. "We're getting there." 

He bypasses the living room to walk down the hall, though; they're going to end up on the sofa, so the tour should end there, he reasons. "Bathroom," he says, gesturing towards it. "Guest room, which is mostly storage unless my family's coming to visit."

"So I shouldn't drink too much, is what you're saying," Dylan says, grinning, and Mitch's brain skips a beat, picturing Dylan soft and sleepy in the guest bed, feet poking over the edge because nobody else in Mitch's life is so monstrously tall so he hadn't bothered with the extra-long bed. He blinks and gets the image of Dylan in his bed instead, gray sheets pooled around his waist and arm shoved beneath a pillow.

"Taxis," he croaks out, hoping his voice doesn't sound as strangled as it feels. "Or, you know. The bed's not as bad as the dining room table."

"Jack's desk isn't as bad as the dining room table," Dylan says, still grinning, and Mitch needs him to stop that as much as he needs him to keep doing it forever. It's not a great situation, but Mitch is kind of fond of it anyway.

"Noah," Mitch points out, which makes Dylan snort. "I'm right, though."

"You're right," Dylan agrees.

"Anyway," Mitch says, gesturing down the hallway. "My bedroom's the last door, and there's a pretty nice en suite."

"Do I get to see it?" Dylan asks, blinking at him. He's got really nice eyes. He has to know what he's doing, Mitch thinks dazedly. "You can't just tell me you have a really nice en suite and then not show me, Mitch."

"If you want," Mitch says, faking casual with everything he's got. He's the press secretary for the President of the United States of America; he should be able to fake it better than this, for the love of god.

Dylan walks down the hallway and hesitates half a second before pushing Mitch's bedroom door open. He glances around almost perfunctorily; it's like he's letting his eyes pass over everything without taking any of it in, which Mitch is going to choose to not examine too hard. He heads for the bathroom, likely guided by the little nightlight Mitch keeps plugged in next to the mirror. The light flicks on a moment later, and Dylan lets out a whistle. "Mitch. You completely undersold this en suite. I have bathroom envy."

It's a really nice en suite and Mitch knows it. He's a little afraid to walk in there with Dylan, given how his imagination has been treating him tonight, but it's weird to let Dylan wander around in there on his own, too. He forces himself to walk across the bedroom and lean in the bathroom door.

Dylan is inspecting his shower head. "How many settings does this have?"

"Seven," Mitch says. "I only use two of them, though."

"Seven," Dylan repeats. "Seven settings on your nice handheld showerhead." He glances over at Mitch. "My showerhead is firmly attached to the wall, and you can choose between 'there's probably water coming out of it' and 'sandblaster.'"

Mitch snorts. "Home Depot, my friend," he advises. "Hell, Walmart. Amazon."

"I'm going to save up for one of these," Dylan says, giving Mitch's showerhead an affectionate pat before stepping out of the shower stall. "I'm willing to bet it costs most of my monthly rent."

"It's not that expensive," Mitch says.

Dylan rolls his eyes. "I basically live in student housing," he says. "Off-campus, mostly students. It's cheap because it's… cheap."

Mitch thinks about calling his mom and thanking her again for helping him apartment hunt. "Sucks," he comments, because his other option is offering Dylan his guest bedroom and a more permanent spot on the sofa. They should probably see if they can survive watching a game together before he goes there, though.

"It does," Dylan agrees, walking back towards Mitch. He opens his mouth like he's going to say something else, but the buzzer rings loudly in the hallway, and Mitch jumps a little.

"Food," he says, glancing out at the hallway. "Or Ott finally figured out where I live and we're both goners. But probably the food."

"I hope food," Dylan says, walking past Mitch and brushing up against him like that's normal, like that's a thing they do. Mitch is getting a whole lot of clues here, and it's hard for him to put them together in any way that's not the totally obvious picture he's coming to. Dylan pauses at the door of the bedroom, glancing back at Mitch. "You're paying. I brought the beer."

"Right," Mitch says, stumbling after him.

-0-

As usual, Mitch ordered way too much Chinese food. Everything always sounds good, and Chinese food reheats pretty well; ordering a bunch all at once means he only has to pay one delivery fee, and he likes that a lot. Still, the look on Dylan's face when Mitch unpacks everything and spreads it across the kitchen counter is half amazed and half judgemental.

"Don't," Mitch warns, pointing a set of chopsticks at him. "I will revoke your food rights and drink my own beer."

"I'm just saying," Dylan starts, grabbing the chopsticks out of Mitch's hand. He peers down and the beef and broccoli, then at the egg drop soup. "Did you invite someone else?"

"Future me, who's going to have Chinese leftovers for days," Mitch says. "He's super grateful he doesn't have to think about what to order tomorrow or the day after."

Dylan surveys the food, then looks back at Mitch. "You cannot eat all of this before it goes bad."

"Watch me," Mitch challenges. He still burns through calories like he had when he was playing hockey, before his family had up and moved when he was a kid. He's been told that his metabolism is going to betray him sooner or later, but for now he's enjoying the ability to eat whatever he wants.

"I don't want to watch you make yourself sick," Dylan retorts. "Can I have a plate? I can at least help you make a dent in this."

"Your martyrdom is noted," Mitch says dryly, pulling two plates from a cabinet and handing one over.

They make their plates up quickly, more because the pregame coverage clicks on in the living room than anything else, or at least that's why in Mitch's case. Dylan follows him into the living room, and they sprawl onto the sofa. Mitch's attention is already half on the game, watching as one of the commentators recites stats while Matthews skates around on the ice.

"He's so good," Dylan says half-dreamily. "Did you catch any of the World Cup? Or the highlights?"

"Yeah, some," Mitch says. "That thing he did in warmups, just dancing the puck around—"

"The future is bright," Dylan says, sighing. "I guess that's accurate, since he's from the sun belt."

"How long until playoffs, do you think?" Mitch asks, eyeing his plate and formulating a plan of attack. He will absolutely finish it all, but he needs to know how he's going to divide and conquer.

"Next year," Dylan says confidently. "Give them a little time to bring a few more kids up from the minors. They need a winger for Matthews, too."

"I know who I want to see there, but it'll never happen," Mitch says. "Just close your eyes and think about Natalie Spooner and Auston Matthews making sweet, sweet hockey together."

Dylan lets out a really indecent sound. "Shit," he says, letting his head fall back against the sofa. Mitch tries not to focus on the long column of his throat, but he's only human. "What would we even have to do to get that to happen?"

"I mean, we could try getting the President to push something through about equality in sports or something," Mitch offers. "He's an Oilers fan. I'm pretty sure he'd take any life raft thrown his way at this point."

"The President needs to make better choices," Dylan says, making a face. "The _Oilers_."

"I know," Mitch agrees. He jerks his head at the table where the remote it. "Can you mute the anthems?"

Dylan gives him a look, but he leans forward and does as Mitch asked. "Why?"

"They are always terrible," Mitch says. "Without fail. I mean, there's also the whole history of singing the national anthem at a sporting event, but—"

"Wait, what?" Dylan says, laughing a little. "There's controversial history there?"

"Yes," Mitch says, launching into the story. It takes the entire anthem, which is good, and then Matthews skates to centre ice and leans in for the opening faceoff. Dylan jabs at the mute button just in time for puck drop, and they spend most of the first period eating and making snide comments about the refs.

"That was high goddamn sticking," Dylan yells, pointing his chopsticks at a ref who seems to be more interested in the rafters than the game. "Hey, asshole, come on! Pay attention!"

"This is why I'm at least sort of glad I stopped playing," Mitch says, glaring at the television. "You can play all you want, but if the refs don't give a shit about the rules, then nobody else has to, either."

Dylan shifts, and when Mitch turns to face him, he looks surprised. "You played?"

Mitch grins a little. "Don't tell anyone, but I was actually born in Toronto. Lived there until I was seven. I played right wing for a few different teams up there."

"No shit," Dylan says, laughing. "Toronto boy working for the President of the United States."

"We moved because my brother got accepted to a fancy-ass prep school," Mitch says, shrugging. "And then I got in, and hockey made me more Canadian, and when you're that little it matters."

"It might be for the best," Dylan muses. There's a glint in his eyes. "I mean, you're kinda small. You'd get crushed out there."

Mitch bares his teeth more than he smiles. "They can't crush what they can't catch."

"Skates make you go fast," Dylan says, pointing at the screen.

"I'm fast without them," Mitch says. "Believe me when I say that nobody I was playing with could catch me."

Dylan nods. "Maybe you should have stayed with it, then," he teaes. "You could be the winger Matthews is looking for, and nobody would ever know."

"A man can dream," Mitch says a little wistfully as he turns back to the television. Matthews is skating ahead of the play, and Mitch watches it unfold: the pass from Rielly, the barely-there redirect from Nylander, and the way Matthews reaches to corral a pass that's technically too far for him to get. He splits the defense with ease, and then it's just him and a goalie who never had a chance.

"That's what I'm talking about," Dylan says, satisfied. "That's the future. We're gonna win the Cup in the next five years."

"Don't jinx it," Mitch says, alarmed. "Why would you say that out loud?"

Dylan laughs. "Superstitious much?"

"You heard the part about how I played, right?" Mitch shoots back.

"I did too," Dylan offers. "Through high school. I got drafted to the O, actually, but decided to go the school route instead."

Mitch's jaw drops. "No shit," he says. "What team?"

"Erie," Dylan says. "Back when they were bottom-of-the-league bad all day every day."

"Yikes," Mitch comments. "Probably made the right choice, then."

"I did," Dylan says confidently. "And I was a centre, so I don't have to kiss the dream of playing on Matthews' line goodbye."

"Rub it in, why don't you," Mitch says, laughing. The buzzer sounding startles him a little, but when he glances up, the Leafs are up 1-0 heading into the first intermission, so he figures he didn't miss much. "I'm gonna put the leftovers away. Want a beer when I come back?"

Dylan stands and stretches a little. "I'll help," he volunteers. "No way are you getting all that food in there without a little assistance."

"I can do it," Mitch protests. "Just chill here."

"I'd rather chill with you," Dylan returns. His cheeks color a little, barely enough to notice, but Mitch can't help but stare.

He clears his throat and puts his plate down on the coffee table. "Tell me if I'm reading you wrong here," he starts, taking a step towards Dylan.

"You're really, really not," Dylan says, putting his own plate down with one hand and reaching for Mitch with the other. "I thought you were maybe trying to let me down easy with how thick I've been laying it on."

"I can be slow on the uptake," Mitch admits, stepping into Dylan's space and shivering as Dylan's hand curls around his hip.

Dylan leans down until he's just too far away to kiss. He looks right at Mitch, and Mitch can tell he's smiling by the way his eyes are crinkling. "I forgive you," he says softly, and Mitch tilts his head and pushes up a little, and Dylan kisses him _back_.

The sound of the television drops away, and Mitch notices the little things: how Dylan could use a little chapstick, the way his fingers flex against Mitch's hip when Mitch gets a hand in his hair, how he leans farther in when Mitch pulls back ever so slightly. It's almost dizzying, and Mitch kind of never wants to stop.

He does, though, because he needs to breathe, and he's kind of desperately curious as to what Dylan looks like right now. He's rewarded with the heavy look in Dylan's eyes, the way his hair is mussed from Mitch pushing his hands through it, how his mouth looks slick and swollen.

"We have some options here," Mitch says, watching as Dylan pulls in a breath and sways towards him a little. "We can watch the rest of the game. We can make out on the sofa and pretend we're watching the game. Or," he says, "we can turn the game off and I can give you a more thorough tour of the bedroom. You kind of gave it a pass-through earlier."

"I didn't want to know what it looked like, in case we never got here," Dylan admits. "My imagination is a little too good to have that information."

Mitch steps back. "We need to put the food away," he says, grabbing their plates. "Turn the TV off and then come help me."

"Yeah?" Dylan asks. His smile is out in full force, and this time Mitch lets himself drink it in.

"Yeah," Mitch confirms, smiling back. "I want to put your imagination to the test."

-0-

Mitch's alarm is nowhere near going off when his phone starts ringing. He sighs and sits carefully, reaching out to silence it before it can wake Dylan.

"This is Mitch," he says, not bothering to look to see who it is. There are only a few people who'd be calling him this early.

There's silence for a moment, but just as Mitch is about to pull the phone back and check who called him after all, he hears a snort. "Oh my god, Noah is going to be _so_ smug."

"Jack," he says. Dylan rolls over, blinking and frowning up at him, and Mitch can't help but smile at him."Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?"

"I'm not," Jack drawls. "I'm calling _Dylan_ in the middle of the night."

Mitch opens his mouth and shuts it quickly, grabbing the other phone from the bedstand. Sure enough, when he taps the home button, a photo of himself and his brother stares back at him. "Whoops," he mutters.

"What's going on?" Dylan asks. He throws an arm across Mitch's waist and presses a kiss to his hip, and Mitch very seriously considers telling Jack that whatever emergency he's having can wait.

"I answered your phone," Mitch says, still holding the phone up to his ear. Jack's laughing at him yet again.

"And it's Jack," Dylan says. He sighs and Mitch shivers a little. "What does he want?"

"What do you want?" Mitch asks Jack, reaching down with his free hand to thread his fingers through Dylan's hair.

"First, to pout a little," Jack says. "Noah was so sure that you guys had finally gotten your shit together, but I told him that you were still waiting to get hit with the clue-by-four, and my money was on next month."

"Wait, you guys had a _betting pool_?" Mitch demands.

"No, no," Jack says hastily. "Just, you know. If I was a betting man, that kind of thing. We wouldn't actually bet on your love lives, Mitch."

That's Deputy Chief of Staff Eichel talking there, and Mitch settles a little. Jack is sometimes a bit of an abrasive asshole, but he takes his job seriously. When it comes down to it, Mitch knows that Jack has his back. "Okay. Good."

"Still," Jack continues. "Noah's not gonna let me live this one down for a while."

"Maybe you should listen to him," Mitch suggests. "He's pretty good at people most of the time."

"Do not tell him that," Jack says sternly. "He doesn't need that kind of ego inflation."

Mitch grins a little. "Look, is there a point to this call? Not to put too fine a point on it, but there's a really hot guy in my bed and I'd rather—"

"Christ, stop talking," Jack says hurriedly. "I need Dylan. Andropolis got moved to the ICU, and we need something for the President in the morning. Domi's back with the NSA people on sign detail, because they showed back up about half an hour ago, so he told me to call." He sighs. "You might want to come, too. The press is going to be all over this, especially with how little we gave them yesterday."

"Ah, hell," Mitch says, sighing. "Okay. We'll be there in an hour, tops."

"Can you make it faster?" Jack asks.

"Really no," Mitch says. "Showers aren't optional, and unless you want Dylan there in sweats, we need to stop at his place first."

"Why did I ask," Jack whines. "Okay, fine. See you in an hour."

Mitch hangs up and puts the phone back on the bedstand. "Andropolis got moved to Intensive Care," he says. "And the sign people are back."

"In the middle of the night?" Dylan asks, confused. "They know that they'll get better press coverage during the day, right?"

"Dylan, they're standing out there with signs written in code," Mitch says. "They're not making any demands and nobody's tried to scale the fence. I don't think they're really here for the press coverage."

"Not that we have any other idea what they're here for," Dylan grumbles. "Jack wants us there?"

"Well, he was calling for you, but I ended up getting an invite, too," Mitch says. "We, uh. We didn't really have the time to talk about whether or not we wanted to tell people yet."

"Guess that cat's out of the bag," Dylan says. He rolls onto his back, and Mitch is treated to the view of Dylan stretching, the long, lean line of him right there in Mitch's bed. It's better than he'd imagined last night. "We didn't talk about it, but I don't mind people knowing. Did you want to keep it quiet?"

Mitch shakes his head. "I'm bad at quiet," he says, and Dylan snorts. "Seriously, though. I just wanted to make sure it was okay."

Dylan hauls himself up and leans in to press a quick kiss to Mitch's cheek. "You're sweet. Who knew?"

"It's not exactly a state secret," Mitch grumbles, but he can feel his cheeks burning. "You want sweet? If we get up now, you can experience the showerhead you were gushing over last night."

"I love your showerhead," Dylan says. "I know it's too soon to say that, but I mean it, I really do."

"Well, don't tell _me_ ," Mitch says. "Get your ass out of bed and tell it in person. You can do it. I have faith in you."

Dylan pouts. "I thought you liked having my ass in your bed."

Mitch considers the relative grossness of kissing before they've brushed their teeth, then decides that he doesn't actually care. He leans in and presses his mouth to Dylan's, pushing a hand up into Dylan's hair and making the kiss deep and more than a little messy.

"I definitely like having your ass in my bed, but if we don't get out of bed soon, Jack's going to rip us both a new one," Mitch says when he pulls back. "And no offense to Jack, but there's really only one person I'm currently interested in having any part of my ass."

Dylan looks a little dazed, and Mitch smirks as he climbs out of bed. "Shower, c'mon."

"Shower," Dylan repeats. Mitch turns around at the door to the en suite, raising an eyebrow. Dylan's propped up in the bed, and he grins at Mitch when their eyes meet. "Just enjoying the view."

"I will lock you out of here and you'll have to use the guest shower," Mitch threatens. He wouldn't miss the chance to shower with Dylan and he's pretty sure Dylan knows it, but he scrambles out of bed and towards Mitch anyway.

"Don't keep me from the showerhead," Dylan pleads, crowding up against Mitch. His arms snake around Mitch's waist, and Dylan rocks them both a little. "I don't think I can face today without experiencing at least three of its settings."

"Let's get started, then," Mitch says, squeezing Dylan's arm.

-0-

"As I'm sure you've heard, Senator Gregg Andropolis was moved to the Intensive Care unit at George Washington University Hospital at 3:34 this morning," Mitch says, looking gravely around the press room. There are a lot of people packed in, and some of them look less friendly than they usually do. "He suffered a myocardial infarction late Sunday night, and due to a serious traffic accident, there was a delay in getting him to the hospital. He had a number of serious incidents in the ambulance on the way over, and was delivered straight to an operating room where he had a coronary artery bypass graft. Senator Andropolis has been under medical sedation since that time, and the hospital deemed his condition serious enough to move him from the acute trauma unit to the ICU this morning."

Hands shoot up all over the room, but as always with news of this magnitude, there are also people who decide hand-raising is for wimps. "Mitch!" someone Mitch doesn't know hollers. "Can you give us any news on the senator's projected recovery? Is he expected to pull through, and if so, how soon will he be able to return to the Senate?"

Mitch glares at the man. "I'm sorry, I don't recognise you. You are…?"

"Brendan Gallagher, Montreal Gazette," the man says. "What can you tell us?"

"Nothing, right now," Mitch says. "I have the latest update from the hospital, which is what I just told you about, and it didn't include a prognosis. Obviously, our thoughts are with the senator's family and friends right now, and we're all hoping for a quick recovery."

"Wouldn't it be better for the President if Senator Andropolis didn't recover?" someone else asks.

"That is a very crass way of looking at a man's life," Mitch snaps. "Who asked that?"

Nobody says anything, but Kessel coughs a little and rolls her neck hard to the left when Mitch looks at her. Kesler from one of the West Coast papers is trying to hide his face in his notepad, and Mitch seethes.

"Mr. Kesler," he says briskly, and Kesler looks up. "Are you asking me if the President is hoping one of the members of the Senate is going to die?"

"No," Kesler says. "I was only saying—"

"Let me stop you there, before you stick your foot even farther into your mouth," Mitch says. "The President is very hopeful that Senator Andropolis recovers fully and quickly. This administration will do whatever it can to ensure that he continues to receive the best possible care, and we will continue to update you as the situation develops. At no point will that ever include the President wishing ill upon any member of the House, the Senate, or any other part of this government. Are we clear?"

The room is dead silent.

"Are we clear?" Mitch repeats calmly, looking directly at Kesler.

"Yes, Mitch," Kesler says meekly.

"Good," Mitch says. "Does anyone have any other questions?"

He answers a few basic questions about Andropolis—spelling his doctor's name again, giving the times and dates that he knows for sure—and then moves on.

"Okay, the signs," he says. "The upshot: we still don't know what they're trying to say. They're still peaceful. We're still working on it. Questions?"

"It sounds like there's really nothing you can tell us," Tavares says loudly before anyone can say anything inane. He's Mitch's favorite, honestly. "Hopefully you'll have more on it this afternoon."

"You and I both hope that," Mitch agrees, which makes a few people laugh. "Trust me, it's driving a few of our people up the wall that they can't figure out what's going on."

"I can imagine," Kessel says, laughing. "Anything else for us?"

"Not right now," Mitch says. He's going to send Kessel and Tavares both fruit baskets or something. "I'll talk to you at three."

He walks off the stage and straight past Jack's fuming presence. "Can we have that asshole's credentials revoked?" he asks.

"No," Mitch says shortly. "Freedom of the press. He's allowed to be here. Until and unless he writes something libelous or slanderous, he's allowed to stay."

"Goddamnit," Jack growls. "I don't like it. I don't like him."

"That's why they pay me to talk to the press and you to never, ever stand behind that podium," Mitch says. "I have the ability to say that without using the words and giving them all a soundbite."

"You're the superior public speaker, I give," Jack says, following Mitch into his office. "So."

"So," Mitch says, collapsing into his seat. Four AM wake-up calls after what could reasonably be termed "a late night" are not his favorite things in the world.

"So," Jack repeats, dragging it out. He sits in one of the chairs across from Mitch's desk. "Come on, give me something here. I was right; Noah's super smug."

Mitch stares at him for a moment. "Are you serious right now?"

"Your boyfriend has a little," Jack says, turning his head and tapping his neck just above his collar. "A little mark poking out of his shirt. Anything you can tell me about that?"

Mitch keeps staring. "No," he says flatly. "Maybe you should ask him about it."

Jack grins. "Ask your boyfriend. Which you didn't deny."

"Leave," Mitch says, pointing at the door. "I have work to do. You probably have work to do."

"Actually," Jack starts.

"Noah!" Mitch yells. "Does Jack have work to do?"

Noah materialises in the doorway. "There you are," he says, narrowing his eyes. "Did you forget about the prep you're supposed to be doing for the confirmation hearing? You know, Dr. Pfalzer? Day after tomorrow?"

"It's done," Jack says immediately.

"It's not," Noah contradicts. "For one, Jack, _interdisciplinaritinism_ isn't even close to being a real word."

"It works in context," Jack protests.

Noah snorts. "That's nice, but it's not gonna work in _Congress_."

"Ugh," Jack says, standing up. "You're the worst. Why are you the worst?"

"I'm not," Noah says, pointing towards Jack's office. "If I was actually the worst, I would let you say interdisciplinaritinism in front of Congress."

 _Thank you_ , Mitch mouths as Jack stomps away. Noah just grins at him and nods.

There's nothing new in his email that needs any sort of immediate attention; Mitch debates going to check in with Domi and the sign guys, but decides that's probably not his best plan. Instead, he gets up and wanders out of his office. He tells himself he doesn't have any particular destination in mind, but that really just means he takes the scenic route to Dylan's office.

"Hey," he says, leaning against the door.

Dylan glances up from his laptop and smiles. "How'd it go?"

"Jack wants to throw Kesler out of the press room," Mitch says, shrugging. "So normal, really."

"That guy's an asshole," Dylan says, frowning. "What did he do?"

"I took care of it," Mitch says, walking in and sitting in one of Dylan's chairs. "Working on anything pressing?"

"No," Dylan says, looking back at his laptop and rubbing at his eyes. "I got the President's remarks on Andropolis done and they're with Taylor for final review. I'm trying to come up with something I can start working from when we find out whether or not he's going to make it."

Mitch grimaces. "That sucks. I'm sorry."

"It's either that or start on the position paper on school reform, and I'm putting that off until at least Thursday," Dylan replies. "What's up?"

"Let's do lunch," Mitch says, giving Dylan a small smile. "Since we didn't get to do breakfast this morning."

Dylan smiles back at him. "Careful. You keep being sweet to me in the office, everyone's gonna know soon enough."

"I told you it's not a secret," Mitch says, laughing a little as Dylan shuts down his laptop and stands. He walks around his desk and reaches for Mitch's hand, squeezing it once before letting go.

"Lunch," Dylan says. "Before something—"

"Don't say anything," Mitch warns sternly as they head for the door.

-0-

"So," Dylan says. They managed to make it out of the building without anyone stopping them or any news breaking, which means they probably have just enough time to get to the bistro before one of their phones rings. "Jack came to visit while you were doing the presser."

Mitch rolls his eyes. "Jack's a goddamn busybody."

"It's literally his job," Dylan says dryly. "He's the people-wrangler. He needs to be up in our business, needs details."

"You," Mitch sputters. "That's fucked, Dylan. You don't actually think that."

"Nope," Dylan says cheerily. "He really tried to convince me, though."

"Christ," Mitch says, laughing a little. "Maybe you should be the press secretary. You've got the deadpan delivery down."

Dylan shudders. "Not for what they're paying you and me combined," he says. "Possibly also doubled."

"Kesler," Mitch allows.

"Kesler," Dylan agrees. "And he's just the tip of the iceberg."

"He is," Mitch says. "Did Jack have anything interesting to say, or was he just digging for details?"

"Oh, definitely details," Dylan says. They're nearly to the bistro, and Mitch is looking forward to a Reuben in a way he can't even describe. "He, uh. He noticed... " His hand drifts up to rub at his neck, and when Mitch looks, there's definitely a bruise spreading up above his collar.

Mitch colors slightly. "Uh. Sorry."

"Nah, don't be," Dylan says, flashing him a smile. "Next time he asks for details, though, I might give 'em to him. Lots of them. Really, really graphic details."

"Oh my god, call me first," Mitch says, laughing despite himself. "I'm sure we can come up with something to make him wish he'd never asked."

Dylan's smile goes a little evil around the edges. He lowers his voice as he holds the door open for Mitch, ducking in to speak quietly in his ear as Mitch passes. "I'm sure we can _do_ something between now and then, so we won't have to lie."

Mitch reminds himself very sternly that they're in public, and members of the White House staff, and really, making out in a bistro is less than ideal anyway. He can tell by the way Dylan's still smirking that his own face is probably tomato red, but he's long past being embarrassed by his reactions to things. Mostly.

"Jack came to visit me, too," Mitch says as they sit down. Neither of them opens up the menu; this is one of the best places for a quick lunch within walking distance of the White House. Nobody they work with has to look at the menu here anymore. "He, uh. Asked me about my boyfriend."

Dylan's eyes widen a little, and he scoots his chair in. "What did you say?"

"Nothing," Mitch says. "I'm good at not giving shit away in stressful situations, especially ones in which I don't have all the facts."

"All the facts," Dylan echoes slowly.

Mitch nods. He picks at the tablecloth a little; the stitching is coming loose, and he's not helping anything, but he's feeling fidgety. "We didn't talk about it or anything," he says. "I don't know what to expect here. Was it just friends hooking up?"

He takes a deep breath; he's got more to add to that, but Dylan jumps in. He's not meeting Mitch's eyes, which is not a great sign. "That's…" he says, tapping his fingers on the table. "If that's what you want, I respect that, but it's not something I can do." He glances up and gives Mitch the ghost of a smile. "I'm a feelings person, which I get is kind of gross and not what everyone's looking for, but that's me."

Dylan glances away again, staring at the menu like he's actually considering opening it up. Mitch waits a few seconds, then a few more, but he just keeps staring. Waiting for Mitch to let him down easy, Mitch realises.

"Hey, Dylan," Mitch says quietly, laying his hand out on the table. It's not quite in Dylan's space, but it wouldn't take much to get there. "Hey."

It takes a moment and a deep breath in and out, but Dylan does look up at him.

Mitch smiles and wiggles his finger a little bit. "Let's go out," he says. "Let's do this thing."

Dylan's smile dawns across his face. "Yeah?"

You can't lay claim to a facial expression, Mitch knows, but that's _his_ smile Dylan's giving him right now. "Yeah," he says. "But you have to hold my hand while we wait for the waitress."

Dylan laughs and takes it, lacing their fingers together and settling their hands back down. "Any other rules?"

"More hand-holding," Mitch decides, grinning at him. "And definitely we need to figure out how to get Jack to catch us kissing or something, because he's a _busybody_."

"Yes," Dylan says gleefully. "I vote we watch Leafs games together as often as possible."

"I'm in," Mitch says. "Anything else?"

Dylan hesitates a little, but he squeezes Mitch's hand. "I'd like to tell my family? At least my brothers."

Mitch has a rule about telling his family anything before the one-month mark, but he knows Dylan and his family don't work that way. What's more, he doesn't actually mind that it means he'll probably end up having a shovel talk with Ryan Strome in the next week or so; he works in the office of one of the Senators from New York, and he's definitely the type. Mitch has met him before, and he's the most intimidating Strome by far, but that's not really saying much, so Mitch smiles. "Yeah, okay. If you want."

"You can, if you want," Dylan adds. "Obviously."

Mitch opens his mouth to decline, but then closes it. "Maybe," he says. "Not… not this very second, but I'll tell Chris."

Mitch is pretty sure the sun could go out and he wouldn't notice it right now, that's how much Dylan is smiling. "Okay. No pressure."

"Okay," Mitch repeats, smiling back.

The waitress finally comes over, looking like she's ten seconds away from snapping and breaking a table. "Sorry, gents. What can I get for you?"

Mitch's phone starts ringing; a few seconds later, so does Dylan's. Dylan groans, putting his head in his free hand.

"A Reuben and a turkey club," Mitch says, smiling at the waitress as he reads her nametag. "If there's any way we could get that in the next five minutes, Rebecca, I will tip you fifty bucks."

"That's twice what your sandwiches cost," she objects, frowning at him.

Mitch lets go of Dylan's hand and points at his phone, then takes out his wallet. He's grateful that his dad instilled in him the need to always carry cash, even if you rarely use it. "We need to get back to the White House," he says, handing her the money. "Please, whatever you have to do to get those sandwiches."

"You got it, hon," she says, smiling at him as she tucks the money away. She dashes for the kitchen, and Mitch turns his attention to Dylan, who's just listening. He looks like he can't decide if he wants to laugh or bang his head against the table, which is honestly a feeling that Mitch experiences a lot in this job.

"Problem?" Mitch asks quietly.

"Domi," Dylan mutters. "Signs."

Dylan's not running for the office, so it's probably not a huge deal; still, Mitch pulls out his own phone to see a missed call from Jack and four texts from Noah.

_Mitch, they got the sign thing figured out_  
_One of them talked_  
_Well okay two of them talked but the first one was in gibberish like the signs_  
_Get back here you're not gonna believe this_

Mitch looks up just as Dylan ends his call. "This is," Dylan says, shaking his head. He bites his lip, then gives up the fight and starts laughing. "Did you get the details?"

"No," Mitch says, pouting a little. "Tell me."

"Here you go," Rebecca cuts in, putting a carryout bag on the table between them and smiling. "Three minutes, and Josef says thanks for the tip."

"You gave him your tip?" Dylan says, reaching for his own wallet. "That's not—"

"Hush, run, and I'll make sure you're in my section next time," she says, smiling at them. "And I split it with him. That's still a 100% tip for me."

"You're a peach" Mitch says, standing and grabbing the bag. "We'll see you next time, and hopefully we won't have to dine and dash without even dining first."

"Good luck with the President," she calls as they head for the exit.

"As if it's ever the President who causes any of the shit we have to deal with," Dylan mutters as they stop to pay.

"Hopefully it stays that way," Mitch agrees. He holds the door open for Dylan this time, smiling when Dylan squeezes his hip. "Okay, fill me in."

-0-

"You can't be serious," Mitch says when Domi finishes explaining everything. He's still got half of his Reuben left, but he's too annoyed to eat it. "You _have_ to be fucking with us."

"I'm not," Domi says. The only consolation Mitch has is that Domi is at least four times more annoyed than Mitch is. "We wasted two days on this."

"President in three," Taylor interjects mildly. "Any other details we need to know before we brief him?"

Domi throws his hands in the air. "Can we just tell him he doesn't need to care?"

"No," Taylor says, clearly amused. "I mean, you can try, but you've met him."

"I have," Domi says, dejected. "Some days I hate people."

"But not us, right?" Jack asks, batting his eyelashes in Domi's direction.

"You, especially," Domi grouses. "You the most. You on days when I kind of almost like people in general."

Jack puts a hand over his heart. "That's the spirit, Max."

There's a swift knock at the door, and Alex barrels through it a moment later. He doesn't have even an ounce of finesse, Mitch thinks fondly, but that kind of makes him the perfect match for the President, who follows in much more sedately.

"Take ten, Alex," President McDavid says as he sits down. "Go call your mom and tell her about the interview."

Alex's eyes light up. "Yes, sir. I have my phone if anything—"

"You'll be using it to call your mother," McDavid cuts in, clearly amused. "Go."

"Right," Alex says, nearly running out of the room.

Jack sighs loudly when the door closes. "Interview? Do I need to start looking for a replacement, sir? We just house-trained this one."

"No, no," McDavid says, laughing quietly. "He got caught by a reporter at the grocery store last night and gave an off-the-cuff interview about the benefits of good eating and exercise. He got a call today asking if he'd do a more formal interview about it, and I swear he almost tripped over himself asking if I was okay with him doing it."

"Good for him," Dylan says approvingly. "He's got public speaking training, right?"

"More or less," Jack says. "He'll be fine for a puff interview about fruit and veggies, but we're not letting him stand in for Mitch."

"I'm one of a kind," Mitch confirms. "So, uh. We know what the whole sign thing was about, Mr. President."

McDavid leans forward. "I'm all ears."

"Bullshit," Domi explodes, making a violent gesture with his hands. "It's utter _bullshit_ , Mr. President, and you really don't have to worry about it."

"Now I'm curious, though," McDavid replies, eyebrows high on his forehead. "Dylan?"

"There's a political science professor at American," Dylan starts. "He teaches a class on the presidency. What your position entails, history, how you and your staff handle certain situations, that kind of thing."

"This asshole apparently decided we don't have anything better to do," Domi cuts in. "Because that was him out there with a bunch of poli sci students, seeing what our response would be to 'an undefinable nonviolent protest at the White House.'"

McDavid blinks a few times before sitting back. "So the signs were nonsense," he says slowly.

"They ran some lines from _Beowulf_ through Google Translate a few times, then used five complex ciphers to come up with what they put on the signs," Dylan confirms. "We couldn't translate it because it wasn't another language, and we didn't crack it because we figured they would all have used the same cipher, which they didn't. Also, the messages don't make a lot of sense now that Google Translate has had its way with them."

"He wasted our time and our resources," Domi mutters. "I'm told we can't arrest him."

"We sure can't," Taylor confirms. He looks like he's barely biting back a smile. "Pissing you off isn't against the law."

"We don't have enough jails for that," Jack adds. "So basically, Mr. President, it was a giant prank, and you don't have to worry about it at all."

The President leans against the back of the sofa and looks up at the ceiling. Mitch shoots Dylan a look as the seconds tick by, but Dylan just shrugs minutely. After a solid thirty seconds of awkward silence, McDavid starts laughing.

"Uh," Jack says cautiously. "Sir?"

"Do you want to know the best part of this?" McDavid asks, smiling at them all. "Ryan's never going to let me live it down, not ever."

Mitch grins reflexively; he likes the First Husband, and McDavid is right. He's got a wicked sense of humor, and he's not afraid to point it at the President. "We can tell him it was a secret plot that we foiled," he offers.

"He listens to your pressers," McDavid says, still laughing a little. "All I'm gonna hear is how this _never_ would have happened if we'd stayed in Canada after the wedding."

"No offense to Mr. Nugent-Hopkins," Dylan pipes up, "but I am very, very sure that this would happen to the Prime Minister. In fact, once the news hits, I'd be shocked if there wasn't a copycat."

"I'll keep that in mind," McDavid says. He's still smiling, and it's so rare to see; it's not that the President is unhappy, but there's more bad to the job than good. Mitch has seen him have to tighten his jaw and not react when confronted with terrible news, and he's seen him exhausted, eyes bloodshot, convinced that if he puts in another hour or two he'll be able to solve whatever crisis is in front of him. It's nice to see him happy about the news they give him for once. "Anything else?"

"Gossip," Jack says brightly. "Nothing newsworthy, sir, but if you want to hear me badger people in this room about their relationship status, then you're more than welcome to stick around."

"I don't think I'm supposed to be privy to that kind of information unless it's public knowledge," McDavid says, raising an eyebrow at Jack. "So unless you're telling me something about yourself…"

"Single and happy about it," Jack reports. "We can all go around and announce—"

"Okay," Domi cuts in, standing up. "Mr. President, sorry we didn't figure this out sooner, and also sorry about Jack being… Jack. We'll catch you up when we know more about actual important things."

"Sounds good," McDavid says, rising to his feet. "I look forward to hearing from you soon."

"Tell Alex we said congratulations," Mitch tells him. "If he ever wants public speaking or interview tips, my door is usually open. If it's closed, though, he definitely should try again later."

"I'll pass the message along," McDavid says, laughing as he leaves the room.

-0-

"I can't believe that was a waste of two of Domi's days," Dylan says, sprawling in one of Mitch's chairs. "I think his hair even gets redder when he gets that mad."

"You might not be wrong," Mitch says, opening up his laptop and going through the security protocols. "It would've looked really bad if the only violence resulting from the whole thing had been our senior speechwriter attacking a peaceful gathering out of sheer frustration. I'm glad they kept him inside."

"We should get signs," Dylan muses. "Beware of rabid employees. We can just have Domi and that guy with the beard in HR make an appearance every once in awhile."

"I think if Burns showed up out there, we'd get some really urgent OSHA calls," Mitch replies. "Not that I don't love having your charming face in my office, Dyls, but I need to figure out how I'm framing this whole thing. I can definitely play it for laughs, but someone's gonna ask why we didn't just _figure it out_ and what we're gonna do _next time_."

"Print out a photo of Burns from the employee directory and show them," Dylan advises. "Tell them he's the new protest contact point, and we're not anticipating any further issues."

Mitch grins at him. "Hey, dinner tonight? We can actually watch the Leafs game. I still don't know if they won or not."

Dylan reaches out and knocks on Mitch's desk as he stands. "Barring anything," he says, waving around. "We still have beer and Chinese. I'll just stop by my place and change out of the suit when I get out of here."

"Bring a change of clothes with you," Mitch says before he can stop himself. He grins, watching the smile spread slowly across Dylan's face. "You know. Just in case."

"I'll do that," Dylan promises. He glances towards the door, then leans across Mitch's desk to brush their lips together. At least, that's what Mitch assumes he was heading for; he starts pulling back before Mitch is ready to let him leave, but he doesn't protest at all when Mitch grabs his jacket and pulls him back in.

"Guys," Jack says from the doorway a moment later. His voice is accompanied by the clicking of his phone camera, and Mitch resigns himself to never hearing the end of it. "I'm gonna go ahead and tell you that there was no betting pool on when you'd figure your shit out, because that is goddamn rude and also super unprofessional." He looks incredibly smug when Mitch looks at him over Dylan's shoulder. "But we _did_ start a pool this morning about how long it'd take for someone to catch you guys in the middle of something, and I just won a hundred bucks."

Dylan narrows his eyes as he turns to face Jack. "Someday you're gonna be on this end of things," he says, and it sounds almost threatening. God, Mitch likes him so much.

Jack gestures at him with his phone. "See, that's where you're wrong. I don't do the romance thing. Not my cup of tea, as the kids are saying."

"No kids are saying that," Mitch says, rolling his eyes. "Zero kids. We polled them."

"You polled every kid about tea idiom preferences?" Jack says, feigning shock. "That seems like a waste of taxpayer dollars, Marner."

"Did you just come in here to take a picture?" Dylan asks. Mitch can pretty much hear him raising his eyebrow.

"Yes," Jack says, waving and leaving the room.

"What a dick," Mitch says after a few seconds of silence. "I'm glad he's on our side."

"Same," Dylan says. "I'll get out of your hair so you can finish getting ready to win at press conference."

"You don't _win_ at press conferences," Mitch says, amused.

Dylan smirks at him " _You_ do."

Mitch laughs and waves as Dylan leaves, then turns back to his computer. The next hour flies by; he gets everything as ready as he can, then fixes his tie before stepping out onto the stage.

"We have news!" he says, smiling broadly out at the press corps. "I know, everyone, contain your shock."

They laugh, and it's easy from there; Mitch is good at playing the room most days, giving them the news they're here to find without giving too much away, applying a joke when it's needed to smooth things over or move them along. When he'd first interviewed for his position, back when President McDavid was a young upstart representative from Pennsylvania with too many ideas and even more of a drive to see them through, Mitch had told Jack that he could talk anyone into or out of anything. Jack had raised an eyebrow, but Mitch had just raised one right back. He hadn't been wrong then, and here he is years later, proving how right Jack was to hire him.

"Another fire doused," Mitch says as he walks back towards his office, the hounds at bay for now.

Noah nods and paces him. "You've got a visitor."

"Is it Dylan?" Mitch asks dryly. "Don't worry, he's housebroken."

"I have my doubts, but I'll defer to your newfound expertise," Noah says. "And no. It's Tavares."

Mitch stops and blinks a few times. "Tavares?"

"Your reporter buddy," Noah clarifies, as if Mitch has forgotten who Tavares is between the podium and here. "I'm not gonna say he's lurking in your office, because I'm gonna be honest with you here: nobody who can make that kind of scruff look that good ever lurks anywhere."

Mitch snorts. "Your crush is noted. What does he want?"

"My number, hopefully," Noah says, sighing a little. "I didn't actually talk to him. I just saw him running out of the presser like he was on fire, and then I saw him in your office."

"Not lurking," Mitch adds. "Well, thanks for the heads up."

"No prob," Noah says, waving as he walks back towards his own desk.

Mitch is actually glad for the notice; Tavares isn't lurking, per se, but it's actually amazing how little you notice him for a guy who's as big as he is. "John," Mitch says, nodding to him as he walks in. "Everything okay?"

"Well," Tavares says slowly.

Mitch shuts the door and walks to his desk. "That's not a 'yes, Mitch, I was just checking on the status of the muffin basket you owe me.'"

"You owe me a muffin basket?" Tavares says, raising his eyebrows.

"Kesler," Mitch says, shrugging slightly. "It'll be at your desk tomorrow, actually. Kessel gets one too."

Tavares laughs, then sobers quickly. "Look, I got a tip that I'm pretty sure you didn't get."

"And you're giving it to me?" Mitch says, taken aback.

"It's on Andropolis," Tavares says, and Mitch goes still even as he feels his heartbeat pick up. "A little bird told me he was retiring effective pretty much immediately. They're starting the paperwork to get someone else appointed in his stead."

"Who," Mitch starts.

"I'm not revealing my source," Tavares says, shaking his head. "You know better."

Mitch does, so he takes a deep breath and focuses. "Can you point me in a direction? I don't need a name, but knowing my east from my west could help out."

Tavares nods thoughtfully. "You know I know Ryan Strome," he says, and Mitch has the sudden and very, very vivid thought that he and Tavares might someday be legally related. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from hysterical laughter. He nods instead, and Tavares goes on. "We were having lunch, and someone he knew from one of the other offices mentioned something."

"Thank you," Mitch says fervently. "I owe you so many muffins."

Tavares laughs. "I actually don't eat bread," he says, admitting it like that's the secret he came in here to spill. "If you're buying, though, I'll take a good coffee in the morning."

"You got it," Mitch says. "Does Kessel do muffins? I should ask her."

"Amanda definitely does muffins," Tavares confirms. "Mostly the fruit ones with the crumbly-looking topping."

"You are every kind of lifesaver today, John Tavares," Mitch says. "You got anything else to rock my boat, or should I start calling people to see what I can shake out of them?"

Tavares quirks a smile at him. "Nothing earth-shattering, but if Noah's that hard-up for a date, I know someone who might be interested in treating him to a coffee."

Mitch laughs. "He's not subtle."

"He's not," Tavares agrees. "Mat's a good guy. A little abrasive, a little too focused, but those are attractive features around here."

"I'll let him know," Mitch promises. "Thanks again, John."

"I'm not going to say 'any time,' but you get the point," Tavares says, smiling again as he moves towards the door. "Also, be prepared for an invitation-slash-order for dinner at my place over the weekend. Ryan wants to meet his future brother-in-law."

"You should have led with that!" Mitch exclaims, staring as Tavares walks back to the press room, laughing.

-0-

It takes Mitch three phone calls before someone agrees to meet with him; it's already nearly five, so he grabs his jacket and knocks on the door to Dylan's office as he heads out. "I'm meeting with someone about Andropolis," he says. "Rain check on the Leafs rewatch?"

"Andropolis is ruining so many things this week, wow," Dylan says. "Text me when you're done. I'm gonna be writing remarks on the TPP until I die, pretty much, so we might be able to grab a bite later."

"Will do," Mitch says, smiling at him.

It takes him fifteen minutes to get to the coffee shop he's heading for, so he's not surprised to see Harrison Browne already there. He is surprised to see coffee already waiting for him, though. "Hey," he says, sliding into his seat. "I thought I was buying you coffee, not the other way around."

Browne laughs. "I told them to put it on your tab."

"Good call," Mitch says, grinning. "So a little bird told me that Andropolis is resigning."

Browne sighs and takes a sip of his coffee. "The more secret something's supposed to be around here, the quicker it leaks."

"And the really obvious stuff goes unnoticed," Mitch says. "D'you know I still don't know how the chief of staff gets to work in the mornings? I've known the man for three years."

"DC," Browne says dryly. "I'm not officially confirming or denying anything for you, Mitch. The office will release a statement when there's a statement to release."

"Which will happen whether he retires or comes back," Mitch says, sipping his coffee.. "So when can I expect this statement?"

"It's being drafted," Browne replies. "It should be released tomorrow before noon."

"Before noon," Mitch says, thinking about his own schedule. "I've got my morning briefings at eight and half past ten. Is it going in the afternoon briefing instead?"

Browne rolls his eyes. "You'd have to talk to our communications director for specifics, and the most you're getting out of her is 'it'll be done when it's done.' Kelley Steadman is a lot of things, but timely…"

Mitch laughs a little. "Noted. I'll be on the lookout for something tomorrow, then." He finishes his coffee and gestures to Browne's cup. "Want another? It sounds like you've got a long night ahead of you."

"I've never met someone in this town who'd turn down free coffee," Browne says with a grin. "Thanks, Mitch."

"Thanks for meeting with me," Mitch replies. "And confirming that there's something to confirm, even if you didn't confirm what there is to… confirm."

Browne laughs. "White House Press Secretary right here."

"And don't you forget it," Mitch says with a grin. "See you when I see you."

Browne salutes him before heading to get his refill, and Mitch leans back in his seat. Browne had all but said that Andropolis is going to retire; Mitch doesn't have dates or times yet, but he can still work with this. A quick check of his watch lets him know that it's almost officially quitting time at the office, which means that he can pick up food for him and Dylan without Noah smirking at him too much.

 _Italian or Greek?_ he texts, thinking about what restaurants are nearby. _Gonna be a long night for both of us._

 _Italian,_ Dylan replies. Then, _It's unofficially official?_

 _We'll find out before noon tomorrow,_ Mitch texts back. _Getting food, then coming back. See you in half an hour._

 _See you and food in half an hour_ , Dylan says. He adds three sparkly heart emojis; Mitch is pretty sure at least two of them are for the food. It makes him smile down at his phone, stupidly fond, until the screen dims and goes black.

He's maybe having too many feelings too soon, but Mitch isn't great at doing things halfway. He thinks about it as he orders and starts walking to the restaurant. It's not like he's dying to declare he's in love with Dylan or anything, but it's hard to think of a time when he was so instantly, effortlessly into someone. It probably helps that he's known Dylan for so long, been attracted to him since pretty much the first day they met, even when he'd thought Dylan was a little too abrasive to be working for the future president, and Dylan thought Mitch didn't take his job seriously enough.

They've come a long way, Mitch reflects. He's never known someone quite like Dylan, who's so focused on getting his job exactly right no matter how many times he has to go back to the beginning and start over. He's seen Dylan present something he'd finished to Domi, only to have Domi tell him it wasn't good enough; Dylan isn't above arguing his case, but he's also incredibly willing to double down and finesse the details until they're what Domi is looking for. He's a perfectionist, Mitch thinks as he pays for their food and starts walking back to his car. There's something… comforting, somehow, in knowing that. They match.

The drive takes longer than it should; rush hour traffic in DC is seven different flavors of awful, and somehow Mitch had forgotten that. It's probably, he thinks ruefully, because he's so rarely out in it; his hours are anything but typical. Still, the food hasn't gone cold by the time he gets back to the White House, so he counts it as a win.

"Hey," he says, leaning into Dylan's office. "Eggplant parm, angel hair pasta, really crunchy garlic bread, all with your name on them."

Dylan's eyes zero in on the food; Mitch can't actually hear his stomach growl, but the look in Dylan's eyes makes him think he'd be able to if he were any closer. "Come in, sit down," Dylan says, grabbing a sheaf of papers and, after looking around for a minute, putting them on the floor. "Please don't let me roll my chair over those later."

"I'll do my best," Mitch promises. "How's the TPP treating you?"

"I'm glad to leave it for a little while to work on Andropolis," Dylan says, pulling his container towards himself and opening it up. He sniffs deeply and smiles a little dreamily. "This smells incredible."

"Did you eat lunch today?" Mitch asks, raising an eyebrow as he passes Dylan a set of plastic silverware.

Dylan shrugs. "Maybe?" he hazards. "Not gonna promise you that."

"I'm bringing you leftover Thai tomorrow," Mitch says, cutting into a meatball. "Meals are important."

"And you have enough leftover Thai to feed most of the press corps," Dylan adds. "I'm not saying no, though."

"Good," Mitch says. "I was bringing you food either way, so I'm glad I don't have to force-feed you."

Dylan waggles his eyebrows. "I mean, if that's what you're into…"

"Ew," Noah says from the doorway, and Mitch jerks around to glance at him. He looks like he's pretty close to bursting into laughter, but he sort of always looks like that, so Mitch will give him a pass. "Just letting you guys know that there's an early all-hands to deal with whatever is coming down on Andropolis. Please hang a sock on the door if you're gonna be talking about weird sex things."

"Just assume we are," Mitch says, keeping a straight face. "Text first. That should keep things PG for your sensitive ears."

"We'll be here," Dylan adds. "I might _still_ be here."

"Same, unfortunately," Mitch says, sighing. "Thanks, Noah."

Noah salutes them and walks towards the exit. He gets to go home, lucky bastard.

"Well," Dylan says, cutting his eggplant into bite-sized pieces. "It's no Leafs rewatch on the sofa, but good food and good company makes for a good second date, right?"

"I'm counting it as a win," Mitch says, smiling at him across the desk.

-0-

The first time Mitch ever fell asleep at his desk, they'd been on the campaign trail in Iowa, and his desk had actually been three feet from his hotel bed. It's not Mitch's proudest moment, but he's at least learned the art of desk-sleeping by this point: set an alarm, move anything that can't be harmed to the side, and keep a toothbrush in your desk.

Dylan has Mitch's preparations _beat_.

"Hey," he says when Mitch starts blinking more than he's focusing. "Nap time?"

"Might be," Mitch says, rubbing at his eyes. It feels like he's got sand in them; sleep is probably the better part of valor for now. "Think we can get away with breaking into Taylor's office and napping on his sofa?"

"Probably," Dylan says, shrugging. He leans over and yanks a desk drawer open. "Wanna try?"

"Definitely," Mitch says. He stands and stretches, and it feels like his entire spine pops. It's _awesome_. "What's in the drawer?"

Dylan pulls out a blanket and offers it to Mitch before reaching back in. "Hang on, there's another one."

Mitch looks at Dylan, then the blanket, then back at Dylan. "I keep files in my desk," he says as Dylan does indeed pull out another blanket.

"Amateur," Dylan says affectionately. "I had a pillow in there at my last job, but my desk is smaller here. I usually use the second blanket as a pillow."

It makes Mitch laugh. "Were you a Boy Scout?"

"Sure was," Dylan affirms. "Made my Eagle and everything. Always prepared."

"I'm impressed," Mitch says, following Dylan out of his office and down the hall. "I didn't make it past Bear Scout."

"I'm pretty sure certain members of the press would have a conclusion to draw here," Dylan says, trying the door to Taylor's office. It swings open without protest, and they both roll their eyes. Dylan grabs Mitch's elbow as he starts walking by, smiling down at him when Mitch glances up. "As a good boyfriend, however, I'll let the comment slide."

"You're the best," Mitch says, smiling up at him and trying not to let all of his feelings out at once. He's not great at corralling them when he's tired like this. "Nap?"

"Nap," Dylan agrees.

Mitch remembers to set an alarm before laying down, which is good; he's asleep pretty much as soon as he's horizontal, and he may or may not remember to pull the blanket up before he's out. He vaguely feels Dylan climb onto the sofa beside him, but if he says anything, Mitch doesn't hear it at all.

He wakes up way too warm when his alarm starts blaring. Dylan whines in his ear, burying his head against Mitch's shoulder. "Make it stop," he mumbles.

Mitch presses a kiss to his temple. "Time to get up."

"No," Dylan says, dragging the word out and rubbing his face against Mitch's shirt. "Five more minutes."

"You're awake," Mitch says, laughing. He can feel Dylan's smile pressed against his shoulder. "C'mon, get up. We can nap again later."

"You're lying to me," Dylan says, sighing, but he stretches and gets up, offering Mitch a hand once he's standing. "We're gonna go out there and start working, and then other people will be here. We won't get any sleep once people happen."

"Damn people," Mitch says. He grabs Dylan's hand and pulls himself up, then steps into Dylan's space. "We'll survive."

"We will," Dylan confirms, rocking them back and forth a little.

Mitch doesn't know why he didn't see it coming, but of course that's when the door opens and Taylor, dressed in slacks and a cardigan like always, walks in. He stops dead in his tracks and stares at them. His gaze travels slowly to the sofa, where their blankets are still tangled, and then slowly back to them.

"Just tell me you didn't defile anything in here," Taylor finally says. "That's all I need to know."

"We were up until four working on Andropolis," Dylan replies, still holding Mitch close. "And you woke us up at about four yesterday morning, remember? We definitely didn't have the energy to _defile_ anything."

"Thanks for the suggestion, though," Mitch says, waggling his eyebrows in Taylor's direction.

"Hey, Ashley," Taylor yells without looking away from them. "Can you get in touch with Maintenance about the door lock again?"

"Yeah, sure," Ashley yells back. "They're still dealing with the mold thing in the Archives, though, so—"

"Right," Taylor mutters. He sighs and yells again. "Thanks, Ash."

"We won't defile anything," Dylan says. "Not today. Too much to do."

"Good enough for now," Taylor decides. "Get your shit and go."

Mitch steps away from Dylan and grabs the blanket pile, then shoves his hand through his hair before heading for the door. It's going to be a mess until he gets a comb through it, but experience has taught him that it's better to try to tame it, especially when he's this close to needing a haircut.

Ashley gives him a sly smile when he steps out, Dylan following close on his heels. "Good night?"

"I wish," Mitch mutters. "Tell Taylor we told you we screwed on his desk, will you, Ash?"

She laughs. "Not on your life, sweetie. Go brush your hair. Do you have a change of clothes, or do you need me to get someone to run that to the dry cleaner's?"

"Nah, I've got a change," Mitch says. "Thanks."

"Knock 'em dead, tiger," she says, shooing them out of her way. "I'll tell Taylor you made out against the door for a little while."

Dylan laughs. "You're the best."

"I know," she calls after them.

Mitch smiles cheerily at everyone who's already there as they walk back to Dylan's office. He's not sure if he's more amused or disappointed that they barely get a raised eyebrow even though it's clear they just woke up, very probably together. He turns when he gets into Dylan's office. "Are we already old news?"

"If you want, I can dip you in the middle of the hall," Dylan offers. "That would probably get at least Noah to comment."

"Let's save it for later," Mitch says. He tosses one of the blankets to Dylan and starts folding the other. "We'll have a slow day eventually, right?"

"Sure," Dylan says agreeably. "We'll break it out then."

"Marner," Jack yells from the hallway. "Do we have any idea what we're saying to the press in an hour and a half? And by we, I mean you."

Mitch sighs. "But until then…"

Dylan laughs. "Go tame the wild beast," he says. "I'll catch you later."

"Catch you later," Mitch echoes, heading out to calm Jack down.

-0-

If Mitch is being honest with himself, the day is awful. He can function on little to no sleep, but only for a limited amount of time, and most of the press descend like vultures after Andropolis' office announces that he regained consciousness and immediately filed his retirement papers. Mitch will be forever thankful to Browne for texting him when they released their statement, but there's only so much easier it makes his own job.

"I want to sleep for three years," Mitch says after the 10:30 press conference, collapsing into a chair in Dylan's office. "At least three. Maybe four."

"Five is right out," Dylan says, and Mitch can't help his smile.

"You're a nerd," he says. "I knew this, but I'm still happy to have confirmation."

Dylan points at him. "You got the reference, so who's the real nerd?"

"Both of you," Domi says from the doorway. "Seriously. Strome, what do you have for the President?"

"I'll have his remarks in half an hour," Dylan promises. "He doesn't have to say anything until five, so—"

"Yeah, good," Domi interrupts. He's an acquired taste, but Mitch likes him all the same, most days. "Marner, any way to find out who the governor of Colorado is going to appoint?"

"Not this early," Mitch says. "Jack's on top of it. Have him loop you in."

"Right, okay," Domi says. "You guys look like you need a nap."

Dylan snorts. "Gonna spot us a few hours, boss?"

"Not a chance in hell," Domi says. "I heard something's going down with Wickenheiser and one of the guys grappling for the minority leadership now that Andropolis is out. Might want to get on that before it turns into a real fire."

Mitch groans. "If it's not one thing…"

"It's Republicans," Domi finishes. "It's always Republicans."

"That it is," Dylan agrees. "See you later, Domi."

Domi waves and heads off.

Mitch leans forward and rubs at his eyes. "I'm taking a bath when I get home," he mutters. "I'm filling up the tub with water so hot I'm gonna be red when I get out, and I'm just going to sit there for an hour."

"It'll be cold by then," Dylan points out.

"Not if I keep letting water out and topping it up," Mitch says. He looks up. "I love my job, but some days I hate my job more than I can even begin to describe."

Dylan looks at him for a moment, considering. "Why did you take the job?"

Mitch blinks. "What?"

"This job," Dylan says patiently. "Why'd you take it? Being press secretary. It's not exactly one of those 'when I grow up, I wanna be' things."

"Someone needed to," Mitch says. "I'm good at people. I'm good at questions I don't know how to answer, and I'm good at selling just enough of the truth to make it count."

Dylan nods. "So you're good at being a public face," he says. "Why _this_ one?"

"Because McDavid is worth it," Mitch says. He doesn't even really have to think about it. "Because he's the least full of shit politician I've ever met, and I can be part of the team that stands between him and the world so he can get things accomplished."

It makes Dylan smile. "Exactly."

"Huh?" Mitch replies. 

"It's worth it," Dylan repeats. "Look, Mitch, this job sucks some days. Sometimes we have to do shit that I don't agree with; some days Jack gets so wound up that I want to duct tape his mouth shut."

"Noah has dibs," Mitch says.

"Which is why I haven't," Dylan replies. "But it's worth it even when I feel like I want to throw everything out a window, when it feels like I'm going to scream at the next person who talks to me." He leans in. "It's worth it to be here. It's worth it to know we're a part of an administration that's really gonna _change_ things."

Mitch smiles a little. "Thanks for the pep talk."

"Just wanted to remind you," Dylan says, smiling back. "You don't always have to like something to love it, even if it does help."

"Yeah," Mitch agrees. He stands up. "I should get back to work."

Dylan stands, reaching out for Mitch's hand. He pulls Mitch in, pressing a quick kiss to his temple. "Back to work _changing the world_ ," he emphasizes.

Mitch lets the smile spread across his face. "Yeah. Let's go change the world."

**Author's Note:**

> -did i purposely name a story about the president and his aides with lyrics from a song by canadian folk singer/hero stan rogers? of course i did. you already knew the answer to that.
> 
> -this was _so much fun_ to write. i can't even begin to describe it to you.
> 
> -andropolis is made up, because i didn't want to voodoo wish a heart attack on any actual members of congress. (although...) all of the rest of the people in the fic are hockey players or RL family members, excepting the waitress and cook at the bistro. bonus points to anyone who can figure out who everyone is!
> 
> -[follow me on tumblr](http://somehowunbroken.tumblr.com) for crying about pk subban, lately.


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